


American Exhibition

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Gilded Age, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1886: The Gilded Age.  America takes England to a real bang-up show in New York City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Exhibition

**Title: American Exhibition**  
 **Author:** jedishampoo  
 **Pairing:** UK  & US  
 **Rating: PG** for reals  
 **Warnings:** Some mild language, slang  
 **Summary:** 1886 – The Gilded Age: America takes England to a real bang-up show.  
 **Author’s Notes:** For the awesome liete, who gave me a prompt a looong time ago for “a period fic where America gets caught up in one of his pop culture phenomena of the time and England just finds it ridiculous.” Thanks for that great prompt; this was a blast to research. Thanks also to my beta sharpeslass, who chastised me for not writing smut. I regret nothing. Historical notes at the end.

 **xxxxxxxx**

  
Oddly enough, England had decided that seeing that demned French statue in the harbor wasn’t the worst thing about arriving in New York City. He wondered how he could possibly have forgotten the infernal heat of a mid-Atlantic, August afternoon.

The harbor itself seemed oppressed as the blaring sun washed the sky white and the water was hunched and still; it barely churned as the _RMS Sophie_ chugged its way to the pier. Humid air pushed against England as if in an overly familiar greeting – somewhat like the greetings America himself used to give, when he’d been naught but a wee child and England had been gone a dog’s age and he would throw himself out the door and into England’s arms–.

More often than not these days America greeted him with a suspicion barely concealed by jocularity. _Ha ha, hi there! What’s wrong now?_ had been America’s impolitic greeting the last time England had visited, in Washington, after America’s most recent war. Since then, relations between them were improved, if cautious; America was learning to spread his greedy fingers into the nooks and crannies of his continent and oceans, and the British Empire kept a weather eye on him.

The whistle blew and England was pressed into the rail by the rush of a sudden crowd; some democratically-minded crewman must have thrown open the portals to steerage. England turned to give the throng a general scowl, which the throng promptly ignored in its excitement to disembark. Another, more proper crewman parted the crowd and escorted England to the head of the line. His respectful nods and _here guv, there ye go, guvs_ drew some wary glances from among the throng. Many of its members were his people, though not for much longer, he suspected – Irishmen and Scotsmen had been swarming across the Atlantic in droves, escaping their dreary farms or cramped urban hovels. And they had no particular love for Englishmen. He crossed the ramp alone.

On the receiving side of the pier he saw only pure, classless interest. Americans – citified bumpkins in their shirtsleeves – waved to passengers behind him, calling out in their flatly accented voices. Ladies fanned themselves with their hats. The parting of the crowd as he passed seemed a mere afterthought.

England had just found a bare spot in which to stand and await the porter with his bags when the crowd parted again and he saw America himself – America running at him with his arms outstretched and a silly grin on his pink, shining face.

“Hey, England!” he called, and England froze, mortified and yet not at knowing that America was about to tackle him in an entirely unlooked-for and embarrassing embrace–

But America only grabbed his upper arm in a not-quite painful grip. And pulled, hard.

“C’mon, England! We have to hurry. You have to see this. It’s ace-high, it’s so boss you won’t believe it–”

“America! Your behavior is– _Oof_. My bags. The porter will have them–” England coughed out as he was forced into a jog. America was being inappropriate in so many ways that England could not orally catalog them all at once. “Will you– America– Dammit, I can’t _breathe!_ ”

America only laughed, though he may have slowed his pace infinitesimally. He turned his head to grin at England over his shoulder. “Hotter’n a whorehouse on nickel night, ain’t it?”

England dug his heels into the dust of the street. His shoes dragged little wavering trails into it until America slowed to a stop and released his grip. England took a deep breath, trying to restore his own dignity, and brushed dust and wrinkles from his jacket. He sent America his most withering glare.

“How youthfully colorful you are, America,” he said.

America’s teeth clenched more tightly around his smile. His hands tugged at the bottom of his jacket as if he were unconsciously mimicking England. “Didn’t you get my telegraph message?”

“We received the one Mr. Cleveland sent, yes.” England said. He dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief.

“No. I sent you a personal one. After.”

“Did you?” England stared at a spot just past America’s head. To his mortification he felt his cheeks heat.

America removed his spectacles and polished them with his own handkerchief. “Oh. Then you didn’t come because – oh. Okay. Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

“Jolly good,” England said.

“You might, uh. Enjoy the parade, anyway.”

England folded his handkerchief into a neat square and tucked it away. Simultaneously, America shoved his own into his jacket pocket.

“An official parade?” England said.

“No.” America’s grin returned, ever so slightly. “But it’ll be like nothing you’ve ever seen, I reckon.”

England _hmphed_. “I will decide for myself whether that is so.”

They proceeded into the heart of Manhattan at a much more dignified pace. Crowds of New Yorkers swarmed past them in the same direction, and England noted with satisfaction how America’s fingers clenched in and out of fists as he barely concealed his impatience. Still they walked, silent to each other though the noise grew around them: band music, faint and growing louder, human voices, the clack of hooves and wheels. America’s tensed legs quickened their steps as they neared Lenox Avenue from One-Hundred-Thirty-Fifth Street, and England’s ears caught what sounded like … a hallooing of Indians?

"Loa! Loa!! Edady – Loa! Loa!! Perow,” came the cries, barely audible over the cheers of a monstrous crowd lining Lenox Avenue; America twisted deftly through the horde and England followed in his wake.

They emerged onto an exhibition of such astounding vulgarity as could be only American. There were Indians, half-naked and loinclothed, feathered and beaded, riding spotted horses through Manhattan while whooping and waving hands fisted around spears and tomahawks. They were followed by a crowd of cowboys on high-stepping horses of their own. At least the men were dressed as cowboys of a sort; England’s sharp eyes detected buckskins and hats that were much more clean and showy than those found on frontier men of any authenticity.

There were musicians, playing somewhat discordantly as their wagons dipped along the uneven streets, and brightly-painted stagecoaches of all things, and – Good God, were those _buffalo?_ All this nonsense was edged with boys jogging alongside the cowboys and Indians and wagons, a chest-high wave of Sunday-hatted, black-clad youth, punctuated by the occasional taller boy with gray hairs. Even a few girls danced their way along the street, ringlets on their shoulders bouncing in time with the music and clop of hooves and stomp of feet.

Beside him America had regained his shiny-eyed grin, and he directed it at England. “So what do you think? Izzat a corker or what?”

“What in blazes is this?” England yelled as the cheering around them increased; a tall, outrageously mustachioed man in fringed buckskins was riding a white horse down the street and waving at the crowds. Even England knew who that was; his face had graced a multitude of cowboy posters lining the docks and streets of Manhattan.

“Why, it’s Buffalo Bill and the Rough Riders, of course,” America said, needlessly at that point. He turned away from England and yanked off his hat, waving it at the man and shouting “Hooray. Hooray!”

England snorted at such childlike enthusiasm. He had to admit, however, that it was difficult to look away from such a spectacle. Another group of Indians rode past, this passel much more sedate. The dignified Indian in the center must be a person of some significance, England guessed.

America’s fingers just barely tapped the shoulder of England’s jacket. He pointed into the crowd of Indians. “That there is Chief Sitting Bull himself.”

“Hmm,” England said, trying to get a better look without visibly craning his neck. “Drumming up interest in their show, no doubt?”

America laughed. “Nah. Just cutting a swell. There’s plenty of interest already. We’re going, you know.”

England stared at him. He wanted to tell America that perhaps he was going to the show, but England himself was going to find his luggage and his hotel. He’d just spent two weeks at sea; he was going to perform a sufficient toilet, and then meet with Mr. Cleveland as required. He did not manage to say anything at all, however.

America had removed his hat and was mucking his fingers through his flattened and damp fair hair. “Gee. Show some excitement, will ya? Don’t be such an old croaker.”

England looked away and straightened his beaver. He sighed. He would demand luncheon, at the very least. “Don’t be such a saucebox,” he said.

Once England had been fed and had experienced the restorative powers of cold, New York ale, his amour propre was somewhat reinstated. He sat in the wooden stadium seat America had procured, and decided that he was not improving diplomatic relations so much as enduring a cultural exchange.

The hastily-erected arena was open to the air. It was dusty, loud and hot, and was hung with the distinctively unpleasant scent of bison. A man in a dark suit stood in the center of the roped-off performance area, waving his arms in grand gestures. Perhaps he was expostulating on the delights to come: England could not hear him over the rumble of the audience and shrieks of the children. America was delighted with it all; he bounced lightly in his seat and smiled at everyone and everything without discrimination.

England felt an undeniable undercurrent of anticipation, though he would swear it was coming from outside rather than inside himself. Americans, rich and poor alike, were easily thrilled by such spectacles, whereas the British tended to keep such vulgar entertainments confined to the proper classes and arenas. Some notable exceptions had been Mr. Barnum’s performers, who’d been paraded throughout drawing-rooms up and down the West End a few years back. They’d been American, of course.

The noise around them swelled and then hushed as William Cody himself rode his high-stepper to the center of the arena. He was dressed in extravagantly beaded and fringed clothing, and his hair and beard had been brushed to a high shine. He had been a famous scout in his own right, now turned showman; England had to admit that an air of the untamed prairie still clung to him, if barely.

“Folks of New York! My fellow Americans. Prepare yourselves for an adventuresome, exciting, and outright wild look at our own western frontier, won by some of the brave men who will perform for you tonight!” The Rough Riders, accompanied by a dozen or so Mexican vaqueros, rode out and circled Mr. Cody in the ring, hopping on and off their horses, hollering and firing pistols into the air. “You will thrill at the daring deeds of our American cowboys. Gasp in awe at the savagery of battle! You will–”

 _Watch men dig mines and fall over, trouser-soiled drunk? Enjoy the stench of a prairie battlefield on a hot day?_ England added in his mind. This was utterly ridiculous. Even America would have to be bored by this fimble-famble.

But America was staring at Mr. Cody with his eyes and mouth opened wide. He leaned forward in his seat, his fingers gripping the wooden-and-rope fence with white-knuckled excitement. England looked around them; the crowd was similarly enraptured. England sighed and decided to withhold his judgment until he’d seen the adventuresome excitement for himself.

The opening act, featuring the rescue of a stagecoach from bandits, accompanied by dramatics on the part of the actors, did not sway his judgment favorably. The riding and the stunt-jumping were quite good, but otherwise it was all noise and no substance. The buffalo hunt was notable merely for its lack of actual buffalo death, and the reenactment of General Custer’s last stand, with William Cody riding up just too late to save Custer and taking the scalp of Yellow Hair in revenge, was utter humbug.

America had barely glanced at England for an hour, so to get his attention England was forced to lean toward him and speak directly into his ear.

“Come now. This is not the West. I was there, once or twice. You were there, for God’s sake! It’s an outright fabrication, meant to fool the masses and make money.”

At that, America turned and faced him fully. England could swear that as he watched, some of the light faded from America’s blue eyes. He felt a reciprocating tightness in his breastbone that could not possibly be disappointment.

“So what? It’s fun,” America said, and turned away again. His grin grew once more as he watched the show; the light in his eyes was for the performance alone, it seemed.

England turned his thoughts inwards for a while. He wondered at his own mood. He was not so joyless, was he? How dare America insinuate that he was? His internal debate was so engrossing that he barely saw the gullyfluff before him. After what felt like a month of Sundays there was a blessed halt to the noise. Beside him, America stood.

England stood as well and stretched his back. He watched his own shoes in the dust. “Is it–”

“Just a break, ha ha,” America said. “I’ll bet the best is yet to come.”

“Doubtless,” England said.

A man, half-Negro by the look of him, wandered by on a twisting path through the crowds. He sold America some water with a penny deposit on the tin cup. When America held it out England eyed the dirty cup doubtfully for but a moment before drinking. The water eased the parched tightness in his throat. He’d not been unhappy, no – merely thirsty.

America ran off to chase the man down for his penny. When he returned, he sat down with a _whoof_ ing sigh.

“You know,” he began, and coughed. England looked down to see America’s cheeks coloring slightly. Fascinated, he sat down and proffered his attention to whatever it was America wanted to say.

“You know,” America repeated. “My war between the states was pretty bad. Thanks again for selling the ships to my rebellious half, by the way.”

“We’ve already made our restitution, you–” England started to dig for a proper slur, then halted and clamped his mouth shut. They’d admitted nothing and to be truthful, he wanted to hear what America had to say more than he wanted to trade insults.

America waved it off. “Fine, you did. Anyway, I remember that these men would follow the armies, setting up little shops in the camps and towns, quicker’n you could flick a flea. They took pictures of the soldiers, so a man’d have something to send home to his ma.”

“I’ve seen some of them,” England said, wondering at America’s uncharacteristic, sober mien. His hands were pressed together in his lap and he watched own his fingers tap, tap, tap against each other, glancing up at England now and then.

“Yeah, well you reckon, then, how they’d press their uniform and get all scrubbed and still and dignified-like. And tell their mothers all kinds of stuff, but they didn’t tell how dirty they’d gotten, see? How there was mud and blood and shit between their toes and in every eyelash and – well, you know how it is.”

“I do,” England said. He had an idea where this was going. “Only those who’ve been there know what it’s like.”

“Correct, ha ha! And they don’t tell anyone else, ‘cause they’d never understand.. And why in tarnation would they want to remember that stuff, anyway? It’s not about what’s real. It’s about taking things and making them better.”

England felt a smile creep into his lips, turning them upwards ever so slightly. “Flim-flammery.”

America’s grin in return was blazing and smug. “No. Putting a shine on.”

England had to glance away after a moment or two, conscious of a danger. The danger was in America, himself and his land, a nation of people who wouldn’t stay in their places.

“Like unruly children,” England mused aloud.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, croaker,” America said. “Oh, hey. It’s starting again. The best part, I’ll lay five on it.”

“Doubtless,” England said again.

The first scene upon the return of the spectacle involved a group of Indians, still feathered and beaded and exotically underclothed. A white man stepped before them and announced how Buffalo Bill’s Wild West was ‘proudly poised to offer you a cultural enlightenment; you will savor the mystery and the majesty of the Sioux Ghost Dance.’

And since he’d been torn out of himself, England was better able to watch, to pay attention to the skill of the performers if nothing else. And despite being put on display so, the Indians evinced a singular, utter seriousness at their task, giving their dance more than a touch of the promised mystery and majesty.

“I heard they get fair pay,” America whispered a few inches from England’s ear.

“Admirable,” England replied, and watched. And watched and watched, as indeed, the best part of the show had been to come. There was real danger in the roping and riding of the unbroken horses. Among the sharpshooters Annie Oakley was a markswoman of the first water, a game little miss; she shot glass balls out of the air and split playing cards in two without even seeming to try. The little girls in the audience jumped and shrieked after every shot, and they doubtless all dreamed of doing the same some day.

‘Buffalo’ Bill Cody himself was a fine shot on horseback. And the last act, featuring a homesteader’s cabin being attacked and set ablaze by Indians who were then summarily repulsed by cowboys and vaqueros, was utterly ridiculous and utterly thrilling.

The light was back in America’s eyes as they left. He’d glanced at England often through the last parts of the show, as if attempting to gauge his enthusiasm. England had given him nods that were, he hoped, at least not discouraging, and America seemed satisfied.

“Wasn’t that smashing?” he still had to ask.

“Fizzing,” England told him, as they wound through the happy and satisfied crowds.

“Great word, ha ha! I knew you’d appreciate it.”

England couldn’t even conjure up an appropriate put-down to America’s smugness. He was remembering how he’d tried to grow his hair, the better part of a millennium ago. How that priest had raged at him, how France had mocked him, and how ridiculous he’d looked in the end. But America? He could grow his hair and no matter how ridiculous he looked he would make it work, damn him.

By all accounts Mr. Cody had been a very good scout back in Kansas. And even England had to admit that he made an excellent showman. He thought about his own people, both those stuffed into their expensive shirts and those stuffed into their cramped hovels; they would go wild for such as this. He’d lay five on it.

“America,” he began, and looked at America, at his young, pink face, his silly spectacles, at the tiny glow behind his blue eyes, reflections of the gaslights of the city around them. He felt his fingers warm and he coughed and looked away, at anything and everything else around them.

“America. As you may have heard, the plans for an American Exhibition in London have met with some difficulties.”

America shoved his hands into his pockets like a boy. “Yeah, I heard. Heard you had a buncha liars going on about my boss’s involvement.”

England turned back to America, merely to glare. “That’s as may be. However, I would like to ask: is your Mister Cody a traveler?”

It was America’s turn to glance away, but not before England caught the glint of pure glee in his expression. “I dunno. But I’ll bet you could ask him. Or ask my boss, when you see him tonight. He could put a bug in anyone’s ear.”

“Perhaps a bug shall have a chat with her majesty,” England said, and felt quite absurd after he’d done it. Slang had to be used properly or not at all.

 **END.**

 _Comments, concrit, love, flames, all welcomed excitedly! ;)_

 **Historical Notes:** Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders was a live-action show that was hugely popular in the late 1800s and early 1900s, and was the thing that sort of gave people around the world, even to this day, a romanticized view of the American western frontier. It was one of the earliest examples of American popular culture, and traveled to London in 1887 and played for many wildly popular performances, among them a command performance for Queen Victoria (a squeeing fangirl). Eventually it traveled around the UK and on into France and Germany, playing for royalty across the European continent. Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley were two of the most famous people in the western world.

I’ve made up show dialogue and taken a few liberties, of course. Technically the show was playing on Staten Island in 1886, but I have them in Manhattan for ease of writing. Though heck, I don’t know if my New York is all that accurate.

You can watch an actual, Thomas Edison-filmed video of the parade and Annie Oakley here: [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3w__1GyfQPQ&feature=mh_lolz&list=FL7SB7Kpt--w8](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3w__1GyfQPQ&feature=mh_lolz&list=FL7SB7Kpt--w8)

Here’s a cute poem from a British newspaper about how Buffalo Bill’s posters were ubiquitous in London:

 _I may walk it, or bus it, or hansom it: still  
I am faced by the features of Buffalo Bill.  
Every hoarding is plastered, from East-end to West,  
With his hat, coat, and countenance,  
lovelocks and vest._


End file.
